


Poison and Glass

by omaelmordha



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Dark, Dark Jareth, F/M, Horror, Immortality, Magic, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omaelmordha/pseuds/omaelmordha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah had dreams. Locked away and languishing, but still present. Always waiting for her to let her guard down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Jim Henson's Labyrinth
> 
> Originally posted on LJ community Labyfic on Jan 19, 2015 under my personal journal name.
> 
> Content warning:  
> Although the majority of this work is suitable for Teen and up, certain chapters contain scenes of violence and extremely bad things that I don't wish to spoil, but if this was a movie they would not show it in theaters. Fluffy Jareth is not found within.

**Prologue**

The playwright perched on a stool, bent laboriously over the manuscript. Dipping his quill in the ink pot, he carefully wrote the final lines of the play, and set the feathered pen down with a smile.

Once the ink was dry, he would stitch the pages into the leather-bound book, and loose it into the world. And then – he would wait.

It never took long for mortals to find his books, foolish creatures who wanted to believe, and would say the words. It was a story he never tired of telling, perfected over centuries of re-writes. Polished and trimmed until only the bare bones remained, sharp hooks in a simple tale baited to lure the dreamers and wishers who lived above.

He leaned back, stretching. With a nimbleness at odds with the long hours spent hunched over a table, he sprang to his feet and strode to the window to survey his domain. Without thinking he retrieved a faded length of ribbon from his pocket, and worried the frayed material out of long habit. Age and use had destroyed its colour, it might have been white, or silver. His sharp gaze studied the ever-shifting walls of his kingdom, and his thoughts turned back to the book.

Guilt-driven, those who survived an encounter with the Labyrinth would try to atone for their selfishness by tracking down every copy of the book they could find. They wanted to destroy it, hoping penance could be achieved by saving another family from suffering the same fate.

Therein lay his trap.

Self-flagellation spurred them into old bookshops, and hushed conversations with book dealers, and over the years the red book acquired a quiet infamy. Any serious book collector had fended off inquiries about it. Sometimes it seemed the book had disappeared entirely, only to surface in an estate auction where it would spark a bidding frenzy, or found locked away in an attic, a treasured heirloom waiting to be passed down.

It was truly tragic how often a family who lost one child would continue to lose others throughout the generations.

_Such a pity._

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sky was the colour of old metal, and the air was sharp with the promise of snow. Ice glittered on the bare branches that scraped against the side of the house. From the comfort of her kitchen, Irene Williams sipped her coffee as she watched the barn owl perched in the old poplar tree.

The bird had a habit of haunting their garden, and was often spotted gliding slowly and silently during the twilight hours, ghosting past the house to settle in the trees, where he would remain for hours, still as a statue. Irene assumed it was a male due to his handsome plumage; when he spread his wings, the coverts and mantle feathers were bronze and silver-gilt. Dazzling, and... slightly gaudy. All she could glimpse at the moment though was a heart-shaped mask of ivory feathers.

She smiled, remembering the day they moved into the house. A new start for their new family, Robert had said. Sarah was complaining, as was her custom, and then suddenly Sarah was shrieking as a white blur appeared out of nowhere to snatch the ribbon from her hair. Robert dropped the box of china, Sarah dropped Toby, and Irene grabbed the broom. The bird soared into the air, red ribbon dangling like viscera. The baby had bounced on the grass and let out a wail to shatter glass, and great-aunt Mildred's dishes were never the same. The bird returned the next day, but never dive-bombed them again. Their relationship with the owl became one of wary respect.

Irene looked down at the stack of old photographs spread across the table. There was a picture of Toby and Sarah at the lake, each hoisting their end of the massive fish they had caught. Toby was about six, so Sarah was doing most of the hoisting, and they both looked so happy. In the next one, Irene was pretending to be horrified as the children brought the fish close to her.

She smiled as she flipped through the stack. Sarah pulling Toby on a sled. Toby covered in dog fur after he gave poor Merlin a hair cut. Toby with his head resting against Sarah's knee as she read him a story, sitting in the shade of the big oak tree. The four of them on a boat.

Times had certainly changed. If someone had predicted that her willful, spoiled step-daughter would form a bond with Toby, or the rest of her family, Irene would have snorted. She had thought to herself many times that she had rushed into marriage with Robert, and raising Sarah was a thankless task. But Sarah had changed. Inexplicably, and seemingly overnight, Sarah had changed.

But every now and again, Irene wondered if the change was for the better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bang of the trunk closing startled Irene out of her reverie. She held the door for Robert as he brought the groceries inside. He set the paper bags on the counter and kissed her, and she started unpacking what he had brought.

“I think animals are getting in through the attic again,” she informed him.

“What'd you find?”

“I was putting fresh sheets on Sarah's bed this morning, and I found a feather. Sitting right on her pillow.”

“Anything else?”

“No. The window hasn't been opened since she was home last.”

“Humph. Maybe Toby left it there,” Robert said, head stuck in the fridge as he re-arranged some things. “I'll take a look later just in case.”

“Maybe,” she replied, and let it drop.

 _Maybe_.

What she hadn't told her husband was the way the feather glowed. It was the most eerie thing. The feather was surrounded by a globe of shining light. Her hands still tingled from picking it up. She had run her fingertip down the edge and the feather sprang right back up. She lifted it closer to examine it, but the glow faded away with an audible hiss, like a candle fizzing out.

The lamps had flickered. A cupboard banged shut somewhere in the house. Spooked, she dropped the feather and exited the room, closing the door behind her. It seemed ridiculous now but, she didn't want Sarah going into that room. It felt... hungry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It seemed as though Sarah has been gone forever. She stepped through the door and shuddered, and a tension left her as the sights and smells of home flooded her senses.

"Hi!" she called. "I'm home!"

"Hi honey, in the kitchen!" her step-mother called. "Coffee's on."

Sarah unzipped her old leather jacket, frowning at the gouged leather. She tugged her boots off and turned the dead bolt behind her. She side-stepped a book bag and walked into the kitchen, where Irene was setting the table.

"Sarah, you've changed your hair." Irene blinked, and stared closely. "It looks great!"

"I did? Oh yes, I did, thank you," Sarah replied, tucking a lock behind her ear. "Dinner smells great,  
what is it?"

"Your father's making ribs," Irene replied.

Sarah closed her eyes in bliss. "Ooooh," she murmured. "I haven't had those in forever.” She held out a bag towards her step-mother, "I brought wine."

"Thanks honey.” Irene smiled. “How's the new job?”

Sarah dropped into a chair and shrugged. “The job is great. The boss, not so much.”

“When is the probation period up?” Irene asked.

“End of January. If I last that long,” Sarah replied glumly. “She's awful. I thought it was just me at first, but it's not just me. She's like that with everyone.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Moody. Unrealistic expectations. She's got a bee up her – hey Dad!” she called, as her father entered the kitchen.

“Sarah!” he hugged her tight. “Welcome home sweetheart! Toby!” he hollered, “your sister's here!”

From upstairs came a loud thump, and the heavy clump of someone taking the stairs two at a time. He barreled into her. “Sarah!”

“Hey little brother,” she smiled. “Happy birthday!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Nothing's happening,” Sarah snapped testily.

“You're doing it all wrong!" Toby said, and flipped to a new page in the book. “Try this one.”

Sarah sighed as she closed her eyes. They had been trying for half an hour. “Give me that.”

She thrust her face into the book and stared at the neon green lines. Her eyes began to water. She pulled the book away slowly, staring intently. “Come on, come on...”

“You need to look _through_ it Sarah, not at it,” her brother crowed.

“Some people can't see 3D images, honey,” her step-mother said. “It's something to do with impaired depth perception.”

“I give up.” Sarah handed the book back, and stood up. “Well kiddo, I hope you enjoy your present. At least it works for one of us. Give me a hug.”

She waved goodbye to her father and Irene, and ruffled Toby's hair affectionately. “Happy birthday Tobe.”

“Are you sure you won't be back tomorrow for supper?” Dad asked.

She smiled ruefully. “No can do. I've got a date. See you all next week!” She turned the key in the ignition, and the interior of the tiny hatchback boomed with music. She backed out carefully, mouthing “I can't hear you” to her family's shouted questions, and waved as she drove off.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sarah eased up on the gas pedal. Maybe it was that second cup of coffee, or squinting into that silly book, but everything on the road seemed to twist tonight. There was a shimmering outline along the edge of the road, the tree trunks, the traffic signs... she rubbed her eyes with one hand. A white spot appeared in her vision. She blinked hard. It was gone.

There was a mild thump. She pumped the brakes and pulled over onto the gravel shoulder. With a sinking feeling, she stepped out of the car. A bird lay in the road.

She approached slowly, horrified at what she had done. It was an owl, it wasn't – but it _could_ be - her owl. _Oh no, no_.

The bird twitched feebly, but it made no sound. She knelt beside it carefully, extending a hand to cradle its head. It slashed at her with its beak.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, “I'm so sorry. I didn't see you, I didn't mean to!”

_Oh, you didn't?_

“Please don't die. Gobl – bird? Please don't die.”

Blood bubbled up from its beak, and the eyes turned glassy. The bird lay still.

She picked it up gingerly, and brought it over to the trees, laying the small body down on a bed of leaves and grass. Red feathers clung to her hands. She sank to her knees and sobbed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Up-ending a bottle of lilac bath salts into the steaming water, Sarah winced at the heat as she sank into the bath, forcing herself to stay submerged. She tipped her head back against the rim of the clawfoot tub and closed her eyes.

 _It wasn't my fault_.

Birds shouldn't fly so low. That didn't take away from the awfulness, but it was an accident. She would not have harmed it on purpose. And animals died every day.

_Then why does it feel like -_

She drew her knees up slightly to sink further into the tub, and her hair floated in the water, undulating against her wrists like seaweed. Her thoughts spiraled further and further away, to the dreams – _nope, not gonna think about that_ – to work – _maybe tomorrow_ – to her upcoming date with Philip – _this time he's going to kiss me, if he doesn't, I'll -_

“I had fun tonight,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Me too,” Philip smiled, his brown eyes warm. “Would you like to have dinner on Friday? I heard good things about the new pub downtown.”

She smiled. “I'd love to. Pick me up at seven?”

“Seven thirty okay?”

“Okay.”

They were standing close together, close enough she could breathe in his aftershave, they just had to lean in a little bit – but she didn't want to – _come to me, come to **me**_ – she stayed still, and he smiled, gave her arm a lingering caress, and turned away. She watched him drive off, and exhaled pent-up breath slowly, unsure if the feeling riding her was relief or disappointment – _next time he's going to kiss me, next time –_

_**Next** time?_

Sarah opened her eyes and her mouth in tandem, sucking in a huge mouthful of water. She couldn't see anything, but something was holding her face underwater, someone was holding her down.... she could feel fingers clamped against her jaw, holding her – her lungs were going to burst – it was pressing on her face, her eyes burning from soapy water. Her hands scrabbled desperately at the edge of the tub for purchase, her legs thrashed wildly – and then, it was over. It – whatever it was – was gone.

She leaned over the edge of the tub, retching up bathwater and heaving. She stumbled from the tub and slammed the bathroom door shut, locking it. Pulling a towel tightly round herself, she checked the room carefully, but it was empty. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and quickly yanked up the tub chain. A movement caught her eye.

She looked at the fogged mirror. Water ran down it in trickles, in lines, like fingertips tracing down...

“NO!” she said firmly. “No.” She wiped the surface clean, and clutched the towel tightly.

She turned all the lights on, and checked each window and door. What she would give to have Merlin here - _get a grip Sarah – just your imagination – there's nobody here_.


	2. Another Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place approximately six months after the events of the film. Sarah has returned home and Jareth is left with a shattered kingdom.

(Six months after the great collapse)

Perched high above the Goblin City, the king sat on the stone window ledge of his drafty throne room. Reconstruction was slow after his chief builder had failed him, and the wind whistled through the gaping holes in the floor. Judging by the ache in his bones, he had been sitting there for some time. He gazed at the great edifice, his thoughts drifting and unfocused.

Although it was not a traditional labyrinth, it was not a maze either. By design a labyrinth should have one path leading to the centre, and back out again, whereas a maze had many twisting ways, meant to confuse. A labyrinth led you down the garden path where something fearsome was contained. He smiled.

He was consumed by his desires, and unsure, for the first time in his long life, uncertain how to proceed. Losing the game was unthinkable but there it stood. He was not the victor this time. Defeat was humiliating, and absolutely infuriating. There had never been a time when he was denied. He had never been forced to re-consider his approach until now.

He closed his eyes, which was a mistake, as her face, ever hovering on the peripheral of his vision, came to mind. At first glance she had not captivated him. Hers was a visage more striking than beautiful. Over the years it had become dear to him, and he could recall every feature with clarity; an oval face dominated by green eyes that held secrets, like peering into the shadowed woods. A straight nose, and a generous mouth accented by a beauty mark above the left side. Dark sable hair which tumbled down her back. Oh how he loathed that face, and that foolish, horrible phrase she had loosed on him.

So different from any of the others. They always got lost in the maze, or conceded victory unto him. A lazy smile spread over his face as he recalled those sweet concessions. Sometimes there were tears, somethings – other things.

To his consternation he knew he was the author of his own destruction. What had compelled him to fly up there that fine spring day, what had pulled him back to that park again and again? Why did he allow the book to fall into those dreaming hands? He could have omitted the words that were his doom, but if success was guaranteed, there was no sport in that. He could have left her to rot in that oubliette, but something about the petulant cast to her mouth persuaded him to send the dwarf to free her. He had wanted to break that spirit. He wanted to watch her face when she realized she was back at the start. And from then the course had been set. She left him in ruin.

Yet still... could it be possible?

A smile broke across his face, dawning like a terrible morning on an empty sky. She had accepted his gifts, she had appropriated his subjects without payment, she had eaten his food. She violated the ancient customs of hospitality. And most damning was her treatment of his gift, the crystal which contained her dreams. She had looked within it, when the only choices presented were to take the gift or renounce it. She had dared to touch the orb, and that was most certainly cheating. Rules could not be broken with impunity. She had stolen a piece of his magic and in getting it back, that would give him a chance to get her back.

A plan began to form.

He would make her love him. He would force her to admit it, and then, he would throw it back in her face. She would die, old and alone, knowing she had thrown away her one chance at happiness and adventure. His name would be the constant regret on her lips, and there could be no balm to soothe that pain. He grinned. He would bide his time, and make his preparations. This was a game that would take years to unfold.

Whistling a jaunty goblin ditty, he strode from the throne room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Settled in the diminutive chair at the base of the horned throne, Sir Didymus slept. An entire morning had passed while he worked on the tireless chore of updating the king's maps, only setting down his quill in temporary defeat once the the lines of the great mountains began to blur into the northern sea. The green plume in his cap fluttered as he snored softly, and he dreamed of his youth, the meadows where he had played with his brothers, where his family still held lands in the gentle foothills, far away from the great maze.

His repose was shattered by the wail of a child, who no one tended.

He sighed uncomfortably. Their capricious ruler never used to neglect his charges, and would ensure his new subjects were fed and comforted. Before everything changed. Then he who had once been stern became cruel. A culture of benign neglect turned into callous indifference.

“I have decided to take a journey,” the king had announced one day, after the last stone sank into place with a tortured groan. “You will look after this place until I return. Remember your promise, sir knight.”

Sir Didymus had nodded, and given the king his assurances, and wished him safe travel. For a few days, reports of the white owl trickled in; flying through the dark forest, roosting in the orchards, soaring above the passages of stone, even the treacherous water gardens. Searching for something. And then the tales of his journey became scattered, and harder to discern truth from fiction, rumors claiming the king was spotted as far away as the shifting dunes of the great desert which fled into the eastern sea, flying towards peaks of the great mountains which no man claimed, and through the abandoned mines of the old goblin kingdom.

Looking down at the map, the knight groaned. With a furtive glance at the open window, he pushed the map to the side of the small desk, and turned his attention back to the letter he has been composing before he fell asleep. He penned a few more lines before the crying became full-fledged wail.

“Ho, you there!' he called to a small goblin running through the hall. “Dost thou play games while the king's guest is in distress?”

The goblin tittered and shifted from foot to foot.

“I charge thee to see to the child's needs, in the king's name.”

The goblin quailed visibly and gave a tiny nod.

Sir Didymus rubbed his eyes and turned back to his letter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The owl soared high above the foothills that marked the beginning of the maze, the warm morning air pushing him effortlessly above the scurrying creatures below, and away from the petty troubles which ailed his other self.

Today marked the end of the search. Triumph surged through his hollow bones, fiery elation pushed him faster, the feelings of the other one pulsed like a heartbeat. The owl flew on. Clenched in his beak was a sparkling treasure. The misshapen towers of the castle crested the horizon and he adjusted his path.

The noon sun was behind him now, and nearer and nearer he drew to home. His wings ached, but the will of the other pushed him forward. The weight of what he carried would have pulled him to the earth long ago, but the wind at his back tingled with the magic of a formidable will, pushing him on.

 _Soon you can rest_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hoggle slid the tip of his knife under the wax seal and jiggled it loose. He recognized the even scrawl at once.

_Friend Hoggle,_

_It is with a weary hand I write to you. I should not complain though, in the king's mercy I have retained my post as a knight of the realm, where many would not be so fortunate. Forgive me if that sounds insensitive to your plight, that is not my intention._  
_I worry for Brother Ludo. Regrettable, most regrettable. I hoped to visit him again before the moon wanes, but he refuses all company._

“Regrettable?” Hoggle muttered angrily. “Vicious is more like it.”

_It has been eleven weeks since His Majesty has been spotted. I heard rumors he flew over the Singing Sands when the moon waned last. I sent two of my knights to entreat him to return, alas they returned in defeat. If he was there at all, he is long gone._

“Good riddance,” Hoggle sniffed.

_The castle echoes with the cries of abandoned babes. Who will care for them? I will not shirk my duty to the kingdom, but I fear the needs of a child eclipse my own abilities. The goblins run wild in his absence. And creatures more frightful. Just last night a flock of night feathers were spotted over Goblin City, and never have they ventured so close to the king's domain. If he does not return soon, I fear for our safety._

His reading was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the dwarf peered out the window cautiously before opening the door. You could never be too careful in the Labyrinth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Like an arrow the bird shot through the window of the throne room, landing gracefully in a flutter of wings which flashed and lengthened into a cape, and the body of a man strode forward. He wore a loose sleeved black shirt tucked into dark breeches, and his boots clicked rapidly across the floor. His gloved hands were clenched around something, and the smile on his face caused the goblins to scatter. Sunlight glinted off the amulet that hung from his neck.

Sir Didymus looked up from his desk hopefully.

"Welcome home sire!" he said, good eye shining with sincerity.

"Out. All of you," the king commanded. He strode across the room and took the left exit, climbing the stairs to his tower eagerly. The old door was locked with a charm of binding and sealing, and the air shimmered as he stepped inside. The torches sprang to life and he threw the shutters open.

He approached his work station, a table of worn oak, hewn from a tree in the heart of the maze, the ancient wood was smooth with age. He set down his treasure carefully, a small piece of goblin ore, veined with purple and blue striations. He fetched a silver basin from tall shelves along the wall, and an old dagger, forged in the great goblin wars long ago. Rummaging around the various odds and ends, he selected a pouch of tiny diamonds, and a white feather from his perch.

He scanned the room once. Impatiently he thought of his garden, and snapped his fingers loudly. A potted belladonna appeared on the table.

He tugged his gloves off impatiently.

As he worked he sang, a low, tuneless song, which caused the goblins in the courtyard to cringe from the sound. Hours passed and the stars in the underground sky appeared slowly.

He pressed his lips to the lump of metal.

“Lodestone to guide her.”

He drew the dagger across the tip of his thumb. “A blood oath to bind her.” He set the bloodied rock into the basin.

The diamonds were emptied into a mortar, which he ground slowly and methodically into a fine powder. “A mirror to reflect her heart.”

He poured the diamond dust onto the lump of ore, and added three stalks of the belladonna plant and the feather.

“Poison her dreams.” he whispered, and set the mixture afire.

The acrid smoke burned his eyes but he did not look away. His song intensified, and the walls thrummed with the power of his magic. Finally, it was done. The contents of the bowl has solidified into a black orb, the size of a melon, which pulled the light inside itself. He put his gloves back on before picking it up. It sat heavy in his hands. It was a curse worthy of a queen.

He caressed the orb gently, and the colour shifted, lightening ever so slowly. Shades of silver and bronze and pure white began to swirl, the orb began to expand and shudder. The orb cracked apart and a struggling creature stumbled out. Wet sinew snapped and bones popped. He ached in sympathy for the thing in transition. It was owl, feathers coated in glittering slime. He washed it tenderly, the bird sat docile on his arm.

“Ah, my fine friend,” he said affably. “Far away you'll fly, and long will you be gone. You will watch my prey for me, won't you?”

The bird studied him with an unflinching gaze.

“Watch her, and the spell imbued within you will do all the work. When the time comes, your blood is the key that opens the gates of the Labyrinth. Draw her blood so I can call you home. I know you won't fail me.”

He stroked the feathered head, which was identical to his other form. “Because you see, our lives are depending on it.”

He set the bird on the table, and it took a few steps gingerly before flexing its wings experimentally.

“Yes, like that.”

He laughed abruptly, and the goblins below cringed to hear it.

“'ware the king,” they whispered.


	3. Long Way to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a night of terror, Sarah reflects on the day after the Labyrinth, while getting ready for her date

“The willful heart invites despair.” - Legend

 

The wail of an ambulance shattered the morning silence. Irene glanced up from the batch of cookie dough she was forming, as the siren screamed louder and louder. It passed the house quickly though, and she returned to rolling the dough into small balls.

She slapped Robert's hand away from the bowl. “Wait 'til they're done.”

“I checked the attic,” he told her. “I didn't find anything. Let me know if you see anything else.”

Irene nodded. She had no intention of going back into Sarah's room anytime soon.

“Do you think we'll meet Sarah's mystery man?” she asked her husband.

“I hope so.” Robert managed to snatch some cookie dough. “It's been a long time since she's brought anyone home.”

“Not since Tom,” Irene said soberly.

Robert nodded. “Poor kid. Damn shame.”

They stood in companionable silence for a time as Irene finished the cookies. Robert whisked the tray into the oven and put his arm around her.

“I'm glad she's coming home. I still can't believe my little girl is studying to be a lawyer. After all those drama classes.”

“Sarah told me once,” Irene offered, “while we were watching Law & Order. She said that a court of law was a place where imaginations collided. That the law was really about two people taking facts and twisting them to tell a story. That facts only seem black and white until you look closely at the intent. When we went to the school open house, she was bouncing to see their legal program.”

“Only Sarah would say that,'' Robert laughed. “Sounds boring as hell to me!”

“Don't tell her that,” Irene said. “School is the only thing she's been excited about in years.”

“I won't,” he promised. “It's good to see her happy again.”

 * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sarah sat on the couch cross-legged, a mug of cocoa in her hands. She watched the snow fall outside, frowning. The heat of the mug warmed her frozen fingers and she sighed. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders and leaned back, resting her head on the couch.

On the table lay her law books, unopened. Friday's newspaper was unread. All attempts to study today had failed. The only thing she had accomplished so far was scare herself further by jumping at every little noise.

She set the mug down and stared out the window. Her thoughts turned to other matters, to the day she had packed up all of her toys and costumes, her dolls and statues.

The day after her “adventure”, as she had come to think of it, Sarah had woken at dawn. She appropriated Toby's wagon to haul her childhood away, load by load. She had just returned from her fifth trip to the donation bin behind the church, when Irene caught her coming back inside. Instead of being pleased by Sarah's charitable spirit, her stepmother chided her.

Toby could have used those toys! Why give them away?

Sarah could not explain why, and stormed up to her room. The slamming door was quite satisfying. If she had given those toys to Toby, they would have remained in the house. For her to trip over, to find unexpectedly, and worst of all; to remember. That she did not want.

The only items to survive the purge were a pile of books and the Relativity print above her bed.

She re-arranged her books on the newly emptied shelves, finding a fresh place for everything except the red copy of _The Labyrinth_ , which lay on her bed.

That day, she had tried to organize her jumbled thoughts, and with unusual clarity she distilled everything down to one important point; was it real?

Everything else balanced on that.

If it was a dream, then it didn't matter, no matter how lifelike it seemed.

But if it was real – if there was really a frightening, glittering fairy land, ruled by a narcissistic trickster – who kidnapped babies! - what did it all mean? What should she do?

If he were real, did he mean what he said?

She had spent her entire life wishing for fantasy and magic, and suddenly here it was, but it was not quite as she expected. She had pined over the cute boys in school who didn't notice her, and now there was a man, a very handsome, a dangerous man, declaring himself. Sort of. At least she thought he was.

But that didn't matter if it wasn't real.

She had returned from the Labyrinth changed, if she had gone at all. She wasn't sure. It felt safer to dismiss it as a dream, and yet three facts forced her to reconsider.

 

First, she had noticed as soon she reached for her shoes that day, they positively reeked. The stench was unbelievable. A smell so foul, worse than walking through a sewer. She wrapped a plastic bag around her hands, picked up the shoes, put them into the trash, and took the bag to the curb immediately.

Second, her mother's costume ring was missing.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, there was a new addition to her room. Lying on the bed, atop the book, was a silk scarf. It was black and blue, and covered with bright squares of colour, and terribly gaudy. While it certainly seemed like something her step-mother would wear, it did not smell of the floral perfume that Irene favoured.

A strange scent lingered on it, reminding her of the woods at night, or snow about to fall. Unthinking, she picked up the scarf, fingering the soft material. Pressing it to her lips, she breathed in deeply.

_You asked that the child be taken, I took him._

A strangled cry caught in her throat. Her eyes shot open as she dropped the scarf.

From her father's bedroom she heard Toby wail. She slumped in relief.

_But I didn't mean... I didn't *know*!_

 

So there it was. Three indisputable facts, all pointing towards the same conclusion; the Labyrinth existed, goblins existed, magic existed, and set above them all, the goblin king. And she had journeyed there – because - she shook her head. Dwelling on that wouldn't do any good.

_What's said is said._

They existed. But what, if anything, should she do?

_Sorry Dad, I wished Toby away last night and goblins took him. Don't worry, I got him back! Thought you should know there's a crazy man in tight pants who kidnaps babies._

She could picture the weary expression on her father's face already. He would no doubt chalk it up to another one of her wild stories, and would not be amused with references to child abduction.

Frustrated, Sarah stared at the poster on the wall. She counted the staircases and the people repeatedly, intrigued as always by the figures walking upside down, sideways, in a never-ending loop. Her eyes were drawn to the figure in the bottom left corner, the one who was eternally stuck with a foot on the final stair, approaching a dark door. She often wondered what lay behind that door.

_One of them leads to the castle at the centre of the Labyrinth, and the other one leads to... Ba ba ba bum! Certain death!_

She shook her head.

What is beyond that door?

Answers were not forthcoming. She fell into strange dreams, lulled by the anorexic tree branches creaking in the wind, as rain pummeled the glass. An owl hooted softly.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The book was now tucked out of sight. She had wrapped it carefully in the scarf, and placed it inside the strong-box her father had given her for a birthday present last year. She rolled her eyes. A box - what every girl wanted.

Sarah had tried to get rid of the book. In fact she was perfectly certain the red book was included in the first trip to the charity box. But when she bounced up the stairs for the second load of toys, there it was on her bed. Frowning, she placed it into a box, taped it shut, and went back to the church. When she came home again, she screamed.

Darker than a splotch of blood, the little book lay on her quilt. The air in the room felt different, charged. Her skin tingled. She picked it up and ran, out of the house, and down the block to the store. She bought a lighter, and went to the alley behind the store. She watched the book burn to ashes. But when she came home, the book was still there.

So now it was in a box, which was locked and placed on a shelf high in her bedroom closet. There it stayed for a week, pecking and gnawing at her. Sleep came uneasily. Time spent in her room was either with her back defiantly to the closet door until she couldn't stand it, or sitting on the edge of the window, as far from the closet as she could get, staring at the closed door, waiting.

She covered the vanity mirror with a bed sheet. It was silly, she reasoned, but she was spooking herself. Sometimes, she would catch something in the mirror from the corner of her eye. When she looked at the glass head-on, it was empty, save for her reflection.

Yet she felt – odd - unable to put a name to the feeling of discontent that lurked within her. There was a prickling down her spine. She woke in the night, listening, but nothing was there.

One evening as she worked on her math homework, the solution hit her abruptly. She was obviously still adjusting to a bedroom freshly emptied of her childhood toys and mementos. All her security blankets were gone. To the less fortunate, she thought primly. In a few days, once she was used to her spartan room, that feeling would pass. Soothed, she turned her mind back to the equation in front of her.

But eventually she could no longer stand having the book in her bedroom, and she took the box down to the basement, stowing it in an unused corner. But hardly a day had passed before her father asked her to go fetch the garden hose, then the patio lanterns. Irene needed the spare dishes, then the garden shears. The house was old, with a dank basement carved from the earth, without a source of natural light. A few bare bulbs hung from the beams, casting weak, sick shadows. It was cold and damp, with an unpleasant smell. Each time she descended the steps, she would hunt for whatever silly item she had been dispatched to find, and hurry back up as quickly as she could, avoiding the corner which held the box.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sarah opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was just past five. She had wasted the afternoon daydreaming and was still in her pajamas. And Philip was due in … two hours and thirty minutes.

“Shit,” she muttered.

She went to the kitchen and made a quick sandwich before heading upstairs.

She drew a bath, soaking about ten minutes before carefully exfoliating and shaving her legs.

She washed her hair and the roar of the old blow dryer was a pleasant noise to drown out her uneasiness. She combed her thick hair carefully, liking how it hung past her shoulders in waves.

She painted her toes bright gold, and while they were drying she tended to her makeup.

She dressed carefully, taking pleasure in the matching lingerie as she did up the clasp of her bra. She stepped into the turquoise dress slowly, and zipped it up with a practiced hand. Shoes, shoes....

She surveyed her options. Heels? It was only a pub after all. And it was still snowing.

She settled on a pair of leather flats, and selected a tiny purse. She chose her scarf and gloves, and sat down.

Ready for her date, Sarah waited in the living room impatiently. The clock ticked slowly, fifteen more minutes. She picked up the paper and started the crossword.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

By eight she had finished the crossword, and was reading the comics. She checked her phone. No messages. Maybe he was on his way.

At eight thirty, she called him but there was no answer.

By ten she admitted defeat. Philip wasn't coming. He had stood her up.

She retired upstairs, unzipping her dress bitterly. She hung it back in the closet, and flicked the bathroom lights on. Looking around warily, she entered the room, and stared at herself in the mirror. She began to wipe her make up off.

She blinked back tears. Sarah Williams, stood up again.

She crawled into bed, and clutched her old stuffed rabbit to her chest. Hot tears scalded her cheeks as she stared into the darkness.

 


	4. Clad in Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place concurrently with the end of chapter 1.

“I, lover of the tormented heart,” - excerpt from Sultan Suleiman's poem to his wife Hürrem Sultan

  
There is one place in the Underground where no animal ventures, save one. Sometimes the white owl can be seen disappearing into a stoney vale overlooking the castle. If you approach the castle from the west, passing the sandy hills and obelisks, far to the north is a mountain valley, housing what is rumored to be the king's great treasure, but no goblin has ever dared tread.

On a particularly fine day in the Underground, Jareth was there, dozing in the shade of a pear tree, his cape bundled up to serve as a pillow. Light filtered down through the branches to dapple his face, sunshine glinting off the amulet strung round his neck. He was in a deep slumber when the noise began.

A mighty sound woke him. The noise was a harbinger, a screech to split heaven. It was the sound of the great gates grinding open. Jareth raised his eyes to the sky, which had darkened to an ominous green. The metallic grating continued, the sweet music of the goblin gates drowned out all other sound. The rain began to fall, heavy drops that stung the skin. His fine linen shirt was quickly plastered to his body, and his hair sodden.

He knew of only one action to open those gates. An offering. He raised himself to his knees, hands spread before him like a penitent. He murmured a word of summoning, and the space between his hands wavered. As the light leaked away, it revealed a tiny crumpled body. He felt a moment of sorrow.

“The blood oath is fulfilled,” he murmured, and gathering the dead bird tenderly to his breast, he set about finding a worthy spot to lay him to rest. He found a knoll sheltered from the wind, in the soil of hearty cherry tree. He dug into the soft ground with his hands, taking care to shape the hole well and deep. The rain made a mockery of his efforts, but eventually it was done. He wrapped the bird in his cloak, and gently laid it down. He scooped the earth back into place and stood up. The dirt ran in rivulets off his gloves.

By nature of the curse, when the bird had died, it had drawn her blood. Perhaps she would be more...amenable tonight. He closed his eyes, and in a movement more avian than human, cocked his head to side, listening. Ah... _there_ it was. Above the roar of the storm, louder than the scream of the gates, he heard it. Shame and regret.

_I didn't mean it. It was an accident. It wasn't my fault._

Came a riptide of emotion and he was caught it in, defenseless as a fish on a line he was pulled away. He was flying, he was nothing, passing through time and the great passageways, streaks of colour rushing by in a wind as old as the earth. It was relentless.

All his power was impotent in the face of it. He was helpless to resist the tow and his resentment surged with each passing moment. As the destination grew clearer and clearer, he was bathed in the shining glow of artificial light, the reflection of a round mirror, water. A tiny bathroom rushed up to meet him. It dropped him unceremoniously on a tiled floor. He spied the top of Sarah's head resting against the tub.

He set his will to cloak his presence and climbed to his feet. He stalked towards the tub silently.

_I don't **know** it's the same bird. It could be another owl... they all look alike. _

He took another step towards her. It wouldn't do to spook her, and she was likely to blame him for this sudden appearance. Always deflecting responsibility, was his treasure.

_I'm not going to think about it. Not going to think about it anymore. I'm seeing Philip tomorrow. Next time he's going to kiss me, next time –_

In that moment his ire outgrew his caution. He lunged for her. He grabbed her by the face and pushed her under the water. Her goblin king lay dead for all she knew, and she was yearning for another. She fought and she scratched, and he bent all his weight to hold her under. He could feel her weakening and he pushed down with renewed vigor.

And then it was over. He stood once more beneath the Underground sky, dripping with lilac-scented bathwater, shaking in rabid fury. The rain was cold and harsh. As the clamoring roar of the gates fell away, Jareth straightened proudly, and how he laughed, and laughed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

From the comfort of his bedroom, the goblin king rolled a crystal around in his hands, gazing into it absently. It was not a large room, yet it was elegantly furnished. Across the floor from the oversized door was a gigantic bed, wide enough to sleep three. It was dressed with a black velvet coverlet embroidered with stars, and the bedposts were hung with richly embroidered curtains. A fire burned in the grate, throwing shadows at the portrait that hung above it. An enormous wardrobe took up most of the wall opposite the fire place. Dark metal sconces were affixed to the walls, and a plush carpet covered the floor. Two smaller doors were opposite the entrance, one led to his bathing chamber and the other to his second wardrobe. The windows were open circles cut into the dark stone, and the night air was cool.

He lounged in an immense leather chair in front of the fire, one leg hooked over the arm rest. He wore a golden dressing robe, his damp hair was drying into wild curls, and he swung a bare foot absently. The crystal danced between his hands and the light within it shimmered and swirled. There might have been a waterfall of black, or brown, then rich green. A pale moon. He stared without seeing.

_Next time..._

How **dare** she. He had known anger and jealously. He had known heartbreak. He had known fear and regret in his long life. But _never_ had he known such unquenchable rage as to see his pet pining for another, after she took the life of his other self. It didn't matter that it wasn't truly him that she struck down.

 _She_ didn't know that. She believed in her heart it was her owl. _And she did not care_.

It was a pain so acute that at times he thought he could reach inside his heart and remove it. Study it. Take it out and look at it from every angle, so tangible was this pain. That she could be thinking of another, mere moments after destroying the owl. That he meant so little to her, to see her lying there wanton, dreaming of another. His throat closed up and his grip on the crystal tightened. With a snarl he hurled it at the wall. But instead of shattering, it dissolved softly, the sparkling pieces floating gently into the night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He could never stop thinking about the night she ruined everything. No distraction was enough to pull his thoughts away from that fateful day. Her ingratitude. Her _indignation_. How infuriating it was even now, years later. All of the steps he took that led up to the final moment, examining what he could have done differently to secure a different outcome, it all weighed heavily on his mind.

Like a bird of prey circling, his thoughts led him to the question that had plagued him nightly since his kingdom had shattered. Why had Sarah run from him?

She _wanted_ love and romance, she _wanted_ seduction. He offered her that, and freedom from a lifetime of drudgery, but she turned from the very thing she wanted most. But why?

He did not realize how much he wanted her, until she turned away. He could have taken her by force, had he chosen. He had been sorely tempted. In that final moment, as she began to speak the words, he could have stopped her. But he held back.

Forcing a woman lacked a certain charm. It pleased his vanity when the self-professed victims of the Labyrinth came to him willingly. When they chose him, when their cries were of pleasure instead of terror, that was when his real power manifested, and he knew that he was truly their king. He could be harsh, or tender, but it was important that they admitted their longing for him, that they welcomed him with open arms into their innermost self.

His sweetest victories were the ones who denied themselves most strongly, only to give in later. That knowledge was seared into their hearts forever, and his immortality was assured. In the cold light of day, there was no pretending that he forced it upon them. They had to cope with knowing they welcomed him willingly, knowing that he was not the aggressor forcing them against their will, he was the obliging granter of their darkest wishes.

His eyes narrowed.

_Modern girls, and their need for equality._

He snorted. He knew what Sarah whispered to herself in the dark. She pretended to want a lover who would treat her as an equal. She was so _stubborn_.

Did she really want equality? He doubted it. In fact, he was sure of it. She could have found a useful sprite to help her solve the Labyrinth, but she didn't. Her subconscious knew what it wanted, even if her waking mind protested. She had reached the centre, but unlike the others before her, she defied him, while insisting to herself that she wanted the child and that her deepest wish was to return home.

He knew better. There were girls who dreamed of motherhood, but he had spent enough time peering into Sarah's dreams to know that she wasn't one of them.

And therein lay the answer. If she was not moved by her desire to save her brother, it must be guilt that spurred her. She did not banish Jareth because she wanted to. She was afraid of what she saw when she gazed into the crystal. She thought she ought to desire things like the child, yet she was aware that she didn't. And she was deathly afraid of that fact. Then - the way to trap her must be to force her to admit that to herself. But how?

Once she was back Underground, how could he make her see?

Illumination struck like lightning, and he laughed aloud. The answer is so elegant in its simplicity, he felt a rare prick of embarrassment.

Sarah wanted a lengthy courtship. She wanted to feel like the most desired woman in the world, and one dance in a crowded ballroom wasn't going to convince her. She obviously desired him. He was driven with the need to possess her, to assert his mastery. But Sarah wanted to be wooed.

He was nothing if not adroit in matters of the heart. Perhaps if he gave her the experience she desired, she would be more willing to listen to reason. Now that the gates were open again, all he need do was send her a dream.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a night of delectable fantasies, Jareth rose from his bed in an exceptional mood. He bathed leisurely, and sent down to Cook for a second helping of breakfast. Sitting before the fire with his legs tucked underneath him, he combed his hair slowly, working out the tangles with ease. He ran a hand through his hair to fluff it, and satisfied, sat back in his chair.

He conjured three crystals and rolled them over his hands slowly. Three gifts for his lady.

Dreams could be such fickle things. What dreams might Sarah appreciate most?

He set the baubles into the air and turned his attention to the first. Something... dangerous, he decided. (But not too much.) Exciting, and indulgent. Alluring. Water sloshed within the orb, and just like that, the dream was set.

He plucked the second orb from the air. Something mysterious, playful. Very diverting for her, very entertaining for him. The orb twinkled with starlight, which faded quickly. Decided!

He took the third crystal, and considered it carefully. What was more fitting for his final gift than the very thing she denounced? Refined, with delicacy, this last offering would entice her to give in to her dreams. He would show her what she turned her back on. This time she would see. He pressed his lips to the crystal, and with a flash of alabaster and coral, it was finished.

“Fly away, little birds,” he said gaily, and tossed the baubles out the window, where they floated onto the morning air.

Satisfied with the work he had finished, the goblin king strode into his wardrobe, with thoughts of his lady love pushed firmly to the side. After all, there was still much to be done.

 


	5. Illusionary World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeknownst to Sarah, the goblin king sent her three dreams as a gift.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:

And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,

And make her full of hateful fantasies.”

 

-Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_

 

 

Irene blinked at the alarm clock and groaned. It was quarter past three in the morning. Robert snored softly beside her, oblivious.

Irene screamed.

“What!?!?” Robert jumped up. “What's wrong?”

She pointed to the far corner of the room. “There! Something's there!”

He grabbed the paperback from the nightstand and advanced, holding it in front of him. She switched on the lamp.

“Honey. It's just the laundry basket. It's nothing.”

“Robert I saw something _move_.”

Robert turned on the overhead light. She held a hand against her eyes to shield the harsh glare. He kicked the basket over. She peered over the end of the bed cautiously.

Robert kicked through the pile with his foot. “See? Just the clothes honey. Everything's fine.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Thank you for checking. I'm sorry. I just could have sworn I saw...”

He turned off the lights and got back into bed, pulling her close. Kissing the top of her blond curls, he closed his eyes and smiled fondly. “Told you that job was too much stress. Why don't you make it a spa weekend? Relax and unwind, sweetheart. You've been so jumpy lately.”

“Okay.”

But despite his reassurance, Irene could not fall back to sleep. She lay there with her eyes open, wondering. His soft snore resumed, and she strained her eyes to hear any other sounds. She heard the trees, creaking in the wind. The toilet flushed. Toby must be awake too.

She started to make a mental list of tasks to accomplish in the morning. _Throw the chicken in the crock pot, take Toby to the book store, call Mom, ask Sarah about her date..._

Soothed, she fell back asleep, to dream strange dreams which she couldn't recall upon waking.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Sarah let herself into the back door of her parent's house and paused to appreciate the smell of freshly baked bread. She kicked off her boots and helped herself to a cookie, and picked up the note from the table.

 

_Dinner's in the crock pot, no stirring required._

_Please put the potatoes on at six. See you soon._

_Irene_

 

Sarah glanced at the old crock pot on the counter and wandered over to sniff appreciatively. The throbbing ache from her hand made her look down at the ugly wound where the owl had gouged her.

_Not going to think about it._

It looked like she had the house to herself. She ate another cookie and yawned. Maybe a nap would help.

She climbed the stairs to her old bedroom and paused before the closed door, hand on the knob.

What was it Irene had said the other night, about animals getting in? Well, it couldn't hurt to check.

She opened the white door and walked in. Everything seemed in order as she glanced around. The posters of _The Starry Night_ and _Relativity_ were still pinned to the wall, along with last year's Sue Dawe calendar. Her collection of children's books and fairy tales had expanded to include romance and bodice rippers. The dresser held her alarm clock, a pile of CDs, and an instructional video on ballroom dancing. A vial of sand (a souvenir from Linda's trip to the Sahara). Nothing looked out of place.

The pale winter sun streamed through the window, and the room smelled clean and sweet. The air was warm, drowsy. Her bed looked oh so inviting. Sarah stepped towards it, trance-like. She laid down on her back and pulled Grandma's quilt over herself gratefully. Closing her eyes, she dreamed.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

_In the warm southern waters is an island. Surrounded by turquoise waters which eventually give way to the treacherous open sea, the island is a place of idyll, the great storms do not hit often, and it is a long trip for the coastal pirates. The people are craftsmen, producing fine jewelry and luxurious bolts of silk, made famous by their vibrant dyes. The nearest land is a three day voyage away, and the people of the island have flourished in their solitude._

One small village is home to a merchant and his daughter Sarah. The merchant lost his wife many years ago, and his daughter was the treasure of his heart. Sarah had a knack for finding the rare plants used to make their vibrant dyes. Her father allowed her great freedom, and she would wander far and wide with a basket over one arm in search of the hidden plants from the forest. Each sunny day would see her depart with a shawl loosely knotted under her chin, which was discarded as soon as she passed the rocky cliff face breaking the line of sight from their cottage to the warm sandy beaches, and barefoot she wandered, lost in her dreams.

One day Sarah saw something shining bright in the shallows. Gathering her skirts, she waded out and reached down. It was a shining crystal orb, and from the moment she touched it, she knew it was magical. It sat heavy in her hand. Colours and shapes whirled within, and in her fascination as she peered closer, she failed to notice the men hidden in the trees.

“Well,” drawled a smooth voice, “what have we here?”

Startled, she dropped the orb as she spun around. The noon sun was in her eyes, she could see a group of men, though their faces were obscured. She could tell from the curved swords hung at the hip who she faced: pirates.

 _Oh how could I be so stupid!_ she berated herself.

From behind her came a thump to the back of her head, and she knew no more.

* * * 

Sometime later she came to, and immediately wished she hadn't. She was on a wooden deck which bobbed and dipped, and made her feel nauseous. Her clothing was wet. She opened one eye cautiously, and screamed. A leering, misshapen face was peering at her, and much too close for civility. She scrambled backwards, right into more of them. They grabbed her.

Struggling against her captors, she was rewarded with a vicious slap to the face. Sarah screamed in fury. She was dumped before a pair of booted feet.

“That's enough,” said the silky, cultured voice.

Against her will, her eyes rose, observing dark breeches tucked into the boots which buckled above the knee, the figure was most definitely male. A fine white shirt with billowing sleeves gathered at the wrist, hands sheathed in dark gloves, a richly embroidered sash sat jauntily on his hip. One hand rested on the hilt of his curved sword.

She struggled to her feet, and found herself looking into the most handsome face she had ever seen. His eyes were fierce, and examined her boldly. The wind tossed his sun-bleached hair, and she saw a glint of gold on his left ear. It was looking into the heart of the sun. She lowered her gaze in defeat, and saw the smooth column of his throat, his shirt half-open, revealing an amulet with a gem worth a king's ransom.

_What can Father offer him to save me?_

“Well, well, well,” he purred. “Have you caught a mermaid lads?”

She drew herself up proudly. “I am Lady Sarah Williams, daughter of the governor’s great merchant friend Lord Williams. I will thank you to release me at once, good sir.”

He raised an eye brow at that, but said nothing. _Go on then_ , those eyes seemed to say.

“Your men accosted me, my father must be dreadfully worried. You must escort me home at once!”

“As you wish,” he smiled at her mockingly. He turned to the crew. “You heard her, men. Hoist the sail.”

“What?! No! Let me GO!” she shouted, lunging for him. Before she could blink, a dozen pairs of hands seized her, and held her fast. “Unhand me at once!”

The pirate king strode across the canting deck easily, and took the great wheel in his hand. Sarah felt her stomach toss as the ship began to move out to the open sea, the great swells pushing it high, then low, a strange rocking that did anything but settle her. He gave her a conspirator's grin.

“To your new home it is, my fine lady!”

She fainted.

* * *

Sarah awoke in a large cell. Food was lowered down in a bucket twice a day, and for three days and nights she didn't see a single soul. She tracked the days by scratching lines into the wall, and on the fourth day, things changed. Another captive was sent into her prison, a dark-haired beauty with the blackest eyes Sarah had ever seen. After the third girl was lowered, screaming through the hatch, it dawned on Sarah that her predicament was worse than she had realized. This was a slave ship.

The days passed slowly, the only interruption was the addition of new slaves. Some of them bonded together quickly, but Sarah kept to herself. What was the point of making friends here? They were likely headed for auction.

After fifteen days at sea, she could sense a change in the air. The voices from above were jubilant and relaxed, and the ship was moving slowly. Nine young women had been gathered, and they all looked mildly similar to one another. Whoever was gathering these girls had a decided preference for brunettes.

The women were filthy, hair stiffened with sea salt, faces begrimed. They had not been allowed to wash in their captivity, and they stank. One morning a burly young guard appeared.

“Right then,” he began. “We're taking you ashore. Struggling will get your throat slit, so you bitches better behave.”

He unlocked the doors to the cell, and two more men appeared to whisk the first girl away.

Sarah was the last to be taken from the cell. She observed the ship was berthed in a sheltered cove, the deep blue waters were gentle and the wind was quiet. Ahead lay a lush island, pearly sand and green fronds. On the shore was a palanquin and four bearers. In the distance she could see another palanquin disappearing, so for now it looked like she was being kept with the other girls.

She was lowered into a small boat, which skimmed the waters easily. After weeks indoors the sun on the water was blinding, but before she knew it, they were ashore. The solid ground felt unfamiliar under her feet, and she hesitated before the litter.

“Go on,” the guard prodded, pushing her shoulders.

It wasn't as if any other choices were presented to her. She stepped into the litter, and it was immediately lifted into the air and they were away.

* * * 

After a short journey, she was unloaded into a beautiful marble courtyard. Three peacocks strutted by, and Sarah spied the other litters being lifted out of sight. This didn't look anything like the slave auctions she had read about. This looked like a nobleman's house. Which meant... whoever was collecting these slaves intended to keep them for his own pleasure. Her stomach dropped.

She was bustled through a large marble hall and past a garden, to be deposited into another spacious courtyard, this one had no windows, and was surrounded by high walls. She was greeted by an older woman, with gentle brown eyes, and pale blonde hair piled high atop her head. She wore a set of pale blue trousers and a bolero jacket which left part of her breasts exposed. She wore a jeweled sash and upturned slippers of bright blue. Around her neck was a fortune in silver.

“Welcome,” she said. “I am mistress of my lord's women. I'm sure you have many questions, but hold them until you've been bathed. All will be answered shortly.”

“I am the only daughter of Lord Williams,” Sarah began frantically, “and he will pay dearly for my return.”

The other woman raised her hand to cut her off, a weary look on her face. “There is only one lord you need concern yourself with now, my dear. And what our master collects, he keeps. He will not take ransom for you, he will not sell you, and the sooner you accept that, the easier your time will be. Many here were taken from a different life, but set all thoughts of escape out of your mind, there is none.”

Tears streamed down Sarah's face.

The older woman's eyes softened in sympathy.

“My child, I am not your enemy, but your position in life has changed. Come,” she took Sarah's hand, and led her through an arched doorway, where the other girls were being bathed.

She handed Sarah off to wizened crone, who set about divesting Sarah of her grimy gown. Naked, Sarah stepped into a deep pool, oh lovely warm water and a sponge of soap. She swam in the pool like a fish, reveling in the feeling of cleanliness. Afterward she was handed a paste of mint and a brush for her teeth.

Much later, after her body had been scrubbed, lathered, and denuded of hair, Sarah was led to a table for a relaxing massage. Her nails were pared, and her hair was combed and polished with a silk cloth. Naked she walked through the room with the other girls, and they were each assigned a small bed. She fell into the bed and was instantly asleep.

* * *

The days passed, but Sarah did not see the master of the house. She was given several pieces of diaphanous clothing, all in white. She was treated with kindness, and fed the most delicious of foods. But she was terribly bored. Nights were the worst. The girls gathered in a lounge to play games and to wait, to see who would be summoned.

One day after the evening meal, they had gathered in the common room to play with paints and inks. Their chatter was interrupted by the lord's messenger clearing his throat. The messenger was a short man, crabby and ill-formed. He entered the room and paused in front of Sarah.

“The master requests your presence this evening,” he said gruffly, “after moonrise.”

Sarah was whisked away to the baths and pampered to the point of annoyance. Sarah thought to herself she had never been scrubbed so long nor so well. She was dressed in a special gown, still in white, but the dress molded itself to her figure so that nothing was left to the imagination. Her hair was braided and pinned high on her head.

The guards came for her shortly. They led her down a hallway lined with fountains and lit with colourful lanterns. From nearby came the loud ticking of a clock. They stopped before an ornate set of doors, embellished with the symbol of a snake eating its tail.

“Enter,” called that polished voice.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sarah tossed and turned on her bed, the quilt kicked to the side. The sun had gone behind a cloud and the air was cold. Unbeknownst to her, hundreds of dog rose petals lay scattered on the floor. There was a wet, dragging sound. She muttered in her sleep. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed three o'clock.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Night has fallen. Tiny diamonds twinkle in the velvet sky and a ghostly moon sails overhead, lighting the trail that winds through the woods. The maiden follows it carefully, picking her way down a path shrouded in fog, misty pools tangling in the tree roots. Lanterns are strung from the boughs and they burn brightly.

A mysterious rustle catches her attention, and she stops as a large mirror appears. The looking glass stands taller than she, with an opulent wooden frame. She steps closer, and gasps in pleasure.

She wears a gown of deep red. This is not the virginal ballgown of her childhood dreams. This is a dress to entice a lover. The stays are tightly laced, and her breasts swell provocatively over the rounded neckline. Her shoulders are bare, open bell sleeves hang down her arms.

She preens before the mirror, admiring the gems sparkling in her ears, and the sweep of dark hair caught atop her head with jeweled combs. The red silk shimmers against her pale skin and the ivory under-skirt, as striking as blood on snow. She turns, admiring the sweep of the gown.

“How lovely you look, my darling.”

Startled she turns, but smiles at the handsome man approaching.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Have we met?”

“Yes,” he asserts, an appreciative smile on his lips. “Long ago. I have been waiting for you these many years.”

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I've forgotten your name.”

He laughs lightly. “You wound me, lady.”

His sharp teeth glint in the flickering light, and shyness steals over her. She watches him curiously as he advances. He seems familiar, there is something about that face that seems impossible she could have forgotten him. Behind him stands a great grandfather clock.

He wears an ivory frock coat, and pale breeches tucked into black boots that end just below the knee. As he moves towards her, she catches a glimpse of his vest beneath his coat. It was the colour of her dress, and she realizes his garment was chosen to compliment her gown.

_How thoughtful!_

She hesitates as she takes his proffered hand. The white leather of his gloves is cool and smooth. As the music sweeps in, her smile falters.

“What is the matter, precious?”

“I don't know the steps,” she admits. “This is my first time.”

An impish grin touches his face, but does not reach his eyes. “Then I shall be your first.”

His tone makes her feel very small.

He presses his lips to her hand. “I will teach you.”

He leads her perfectly, guiding her faltering steps through a slow pavane, then a stately minuet, signaling with his hand when to pause and when to advance, and as her confidence increases the music shifts and he twirls her into a waltz. The stars wheel overhead as they dance. He spins her fast, leading her round and round the clearing until she feels dizzy.

“Oh!” she gasps, “May we rest?”

In response he leads her to a stone bench and presses a goblet to her hand. She drinks greedily. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she sighs contentedly.

“Won't you tell me your name?” she asks.

He smiles. “I don't think I shall. Perhaps you can guess it.”

“How will I know if I guess true?”

“I am certain that you will know it, once you speak it. I'll give you three guesses!”

“A game?” she laughs.

“I am rather fond of games,” he admits. “For each incorrect guess, I will claim a forfeit. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she says with confidence.

A frown of concentration mars her brow. A list of humble names runs through her head; Robert, Tobias, Jeremy, Thomas, Erik – nothing to suit this elegant man. From the depths of memory comes a name that might be the one.

“I don't suppose,” she says, flushing with uncertainty, “that your name is Rumpelstiltskin?”

He shakes his head in feigned regret. “You suppose correctly.”

He places a hand on her waist and the other behind her head as her lips part in surprise.

“Your forfeit, madame.”

He is dangerously close.

_Is he dangerous?_

“Kiss me,” he says.

His manner is charming, but it is not a request. She chafes at the demand in his voice.

She wants to deny him, and yet, and _yet_ \- he is so handsome, and surely no harm ever came from a kiss? She turns her face up to him, and his lips are gentle, but insistent. His tongue explores her mouth skillfully, and her body begins to respond.

He does not stop. Her throat closes up and she begins to fight for air as he kisses her. She pushes against his chest, yet still he kisses her, and her throat begins to burn. His hand tightens its grip on her head and holds her steady.

She is painfully aware of sound, the ticking of the clock, the rustling of leaves in the cool night air, the scratching of her hands against his coat.

Finally he releases her. Her breath returns in quick, shallow gasps, and the flush spreads along her cheeks, but he does not press his advantage, and gradually she settles into tense awareness.

Some time passes, while she ponders names and stories she had once known.

“It wouldn't be Tom Tit Tot?” she asks hopefully.

He smiles. “It would not.”

Nervous, she glances at his eyes, wondering what he will claim now.

He makes a lazy gesture with his hand. A crystal ball appears. He looks at it, considering, and before her eyes it transforms into a peach. A mouth-watering smell wafts through the air. He holds it out to her.

She shrinks away. She does not want this. This is wrong. _This_ is dangerous. The prickling down her spine shoots cold needles of fear. She backs to the edge of the bench.

He smiles at her reluctance. “Here, a half for me, a half for you. That way you will know that it is safe.”

She watches him lift the peach to his mouth, the tip of his tongue running up the cleft in the fruit. His sharp teeth sink into it, and his eyes close in pleasure. He holds out the remainder. She wants to refuse him, but cannot think of an excuse without sounding rude.

_Don't be a fool!_

“For me?” he asks with a hopeful smile, his lips moist with juice.

They sit together in awkward silence, his hand extending the peach towards her, her head turned away. The great clock ticks away the minutes.

“No,” she says at last. “I can't. I won't.”

His eyes narrow. “If you're sure?”

She nods.

“Very well,” he says. “I pray you remember afterward this wasn't my first choice. You have refused to pay the forfeit, so I claim payment for this evening instead.”

She opens her mouth to ask him what that means, and her breath catches in her throat. She coughs loudly. She hacks and gags, and – _is that blood?_ – she leans over to retch into her hands.

“Oh my,” he murmurs, and hands her a white handkerchief.

Something is forcing it's way up her throat, scratching and clawing. She swallows reflexively and the pain is almost overwhelming. She is bleeding profusely from her mouth, coughing wet and hard and thick.

“What,” she tries to speak, but the pain ignites. She falls to her hands and knees, choking and coughing. The blood flows like molasses, choking her, dribbling down her face. She gasps the final words, “do you mean?”

There is not enough air. Her throat burns. Blood and spittle fly from her mouth. Something pops out of her throat, sharp and spiny. She covers her face with her sticky hands in horror. She coughs harder, and it discharges; out slithers a rose, the thorny stem is covered in ragged globulets of flesh. Rough pearls and diamonds follow, coated in her blood, they are viciously torn from her throat.

She is hemorrhaging flowers and gemstones onto the grass. Her body convulses as she spews more treasure. All words have left her, there is only pain. A sharp, burning feeling, digging it's talons into her body and ripping at her. The air is thick with iron and salt.

He watches calmly with hooded eyes, making no move to help her. She moans at his feet, the blood is flowing freely now. He pulls his boots back slightly from the soiled grass.

There is a substantial pile of flowers and gems between them, and after a time he gestures towards the treasure pile with a calculating eye. The riches rise into the air and vanish with an audible pop.

“That will do,” he says mildly.

As quickly as it began, the abundance from her throat stops.

She is covered is gore. Her hair has come undone and the stains on her gown have blackened the cloth. She sobs in terror and pain. She coughs up more blood, her body trembling with the effort. Her stomach heaves. Hot tears run down her face. The dew has soaked through her skirts and she is cold. The wet grass clings to her hands and she wipes at her mouth frantically.

He does not deign to look at her anymore, the distasteful wreckage sitting at his feet is far removed from the elegant vision who wandered through the woods only an hour ago.

“Come, come,” he says. “You've still a guess left.”

She sits at his feet. She shivers in silence, thinking carefully. But her mind is stilled by fear now, meandering slowly through the lore she used to know, searching for the right name. She is afraid to speak.

“Is” - she pauses and winces in fear, but nothing happens, - “your name Gilitrutt?”

He shakes his head. His eyes gleam.

She fidgets uncomfortably, a bloodied bird before a snake.

He takes hold of her soiled hands. “Don't be frightened, pet. Mine is a simple request.”

His thumb rims the cut on her palm and – _ow!_ \- he presses down hard.

She looks up at him, terrified but curious. Her shoulders shake. “What do you desire?”

He grins outright at that. “Tonight, I'll settle for your word.”

“My word?” Her voice is harsh and discordant. She stares at him, her face pale beneath the bloodstains, eyes bleary and red-rimmed.

“I wish your permission to call on you, when I choose.”

“Oh. Alright then,” she speaks as quickly as possible, terrified the pain will return.

He shakes his head. “I'm afraid that won't do, my dear. I want your oath. Swear that I may call on you after tonight, and you will not deny me. Swear it, and your forfeits are paid.”

She thinks this over. It is certainly a simple request. And he is touchingly eager for her to agree.

 _He_ _**hurt** _ _me. But I... refused to pay the forfeit. Maybe if I had done what he wanted, it didn't have to be like this._

The silence stretches between them.

“Of course,” he says slowly, “we can barter something else, if you'd rather?”

She shakes her head quickly. A promise allowing him to call upon on her couldn't be as bad as whatever else he might claim.

“I swear that you may call on me. I swear I will not deny you.”

A magnanimous smile spreads across his face. “That's settled.”

The clock strikes the hour.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

She stirs slowly, comfortable in the great bed, feeling the soft coverlet between her fingers.

_My bed? Is this my bed? No – it's – **his** bed._

A heavy pressure is across her stomach, and she struggles to sit up.

A kiss is pressed to her naked shoulder – _why am I naked?_

She turns to her left, and in the flickering torchlight she sees his face, and she relaxes against him.

They lay quietly for a time. His hands play over her body, teasing and feather-light.

His hands are without gloves, for the first time. She looks at them in wonder, they are smooth and elegant. They are beautiful.

His hands move boldly over her curves, with a sense of ownership. She turns into his embrace, silently hoping he will take it further, but not wanting to seem forward. The flame of her desire burns slowly, building spark by spark. His sharp teeth needle her skin.

“Sarah?” he asks.

“Mmm?”

“Do you like my castle?”

She thinks about the many rooms in the castle, some she has explored, many yet to find. The throne room – _that's right, he's a king!_ \- with red pennants hanging from the rafters, tall windows overlooking his lands.

She pauses, unable to recall what the land surrounding the castle look like. She knows it is vast, and there is something about it nagging at her memory - but what does it look like?

Oh but what did it matter what the land looked like? He had a grand library, beautiful dining halls, bathing chambers large enough to swim in, and entire rooms of clothes and jewels, just for her. And the gardens! Glorious gardens, designed by his own hand.

“Yes,” she says. “It's a lovely castle.”

“I hope you shall consider it your home.”

_Home. I went home today, before I..._

Startled, she turns to him.

“I meant what I said before, sweet. I want you for my own. I want you for my wife.”

He kisses her now, and while his touch is light, she feels his urgency. He cups a hand around her throat, squeezing ever so lightly. She holds perfectly still as he explores her mouth gently. Eventually he loosens his grip, and she turns her head from him.

She considers his words as she gazes around the room. A cheery fire blazes in the hearth, and above it, taking up the rest of the wall is a portrait of her. The frame is marred by a long scratch. It must have fallen down at some point.

It is a wonderful portrait, she thinks without conceit. The younger Sarah wears a white gown, and her hair is dressed with silver leaves. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, a hunted expression. The artist captured her expression of enchantment and fear perfectly.

_What was I afraid of?_

She glows at his words. “Your wife?”

He smiles, and the corners of his eyes lift. “Yes pet. Forever.”

She realizes with a start that his hand is on her thigh, moving upward slowly, but with purpose.

“I don't think – that is – I don't know if we should -”

He silences her with kisses. His lips are gentle, and she melts against him. She feels his fingertips stroking her gently, sending tiny quivering sensations throughout her body. She arches her back to meet his hand, as he increases the pressure slightly, and then, his fingers part her skin, stroking and rubbing at that small jewel of pleasure. She pushes herself against his palm with abandon.

_This isn't right. Is it? Have we done this before?_

“Oh please!” she whispers.

He smiles, and slowly increases the pressure, up and down, up and down. She thrashes against him.

And then – his fingers enter her body, easing into her carefully, firmly.

Her eyes widen. “Wait! I don't know your...”

“Hush,” he soothes. “Time for that later.”

_Time. What was it about the time?_

She hears the ticking of a clock, far away.

He continues his tender ministrations, drawing her excitement higher and higher, and she wants to die. It feels so good – and _yet_...

He parts her thighs with his hand. She can feel his hair tickling her skin as he leans forward, and she realizes his intent. And then – she _feels_ -

“Oh God!” she breathes.

There are no more words, and she looses sense of herself, all she can feel is his tongue, sliding over and around, and into her body.

Sometime later, a great shuddering cry is torn from her throat, and the pressure inside of her bursts.

She feels very malleable. As she comes back to herself, she notices idly that the fire in the grate has burned to embers. He stops his torture, content to hold her close.

His breath smells strange – _like me_ – she realizes, blushing.

“Sarah, do you love me?”

She cannot answer. She is shaking. Nothing has ever felt – like _that_ \- she turns her face away, and stares at the full moon through the open window. It is pale and bright, and hurts her eyes.

“I want you to stay here with me, forever,” he says.

_Where is here?_

She is silent as she looks around the room furtively.

_How did I get here?_

There is a soiled dress hanging over a chair near the fire.

_We were dancing. No, we were - I was guessing – it **hurt** \- I don't remember._

“But I don't even know your name,” she whispers, unable to face him now.

“Easily settled,” he says. He pulls her tightly against his body, and turns her face to his. He cups her chin with a firm hand, and doesn't allow her to look away. Those brilliant eyes are all she can see.

She frowns. There is something in his manner that is so demanding, so... he is so handsome, but...

“Would you like to know my name?”

“Yes,” she says.

He leans close, and whispers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sarah's eyes opened. The name came to her lips unbidden, and escaped like a sigh.

“Jareth.”

The vanity mirror cracked sharply. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

_Oh SHIT._

The scent of roses hung heavy in the room. And something else. The air crackled. She looked down.

“What the?” she muttered.

The floor was covered in petals, deep pink and white. The sweet smell of the rose petals permeated the air, but underneath it was something else. Something that smelled like decay. Like rotting meat left out too long.

Her hand was throbbing like she was holding a hot coal. She glanced down, and saw a single feather, resting in her palm.

She was about to step off the bed, when she heard it. Breathing. There was quiet, wet breathing coming from somewhere.

“I hear you asshole,” she said. There was no reply.

She glanced around the room quickly. Her childhood makeup table had been replaced by a set of drawers, no room to hide under there. There were only two places it could be, under the bed, or in the closet.

_Unless it's invisible._

She gulped.

_What the hell is it?_

The stench was horrible. She could taste it in the back of her throat.

She looked around the room again, then down to the floor. The petals were disturbed, there was a sort of trail through them, leading to under the bed. Which meant... she was sitting right on top of it.

_Okay. Under the bed it is. It can't get me if I stay up here._

It was maybe six feet or less from the end of the bed to the door to the hallway. But if she got off the bed, she was within grabbing distance.

“Things aren't always as they seem”, she reminded herself. It could be some perfectly nice creature under the bed. On the other hand, it had invaded her bedroom and tried to hide itself. Not inspiring much confidence there.

She climbed up on her knees and, hanging onto the bedpost firmly, she leaned over, craning her neck to see. But there was the bedskirt obscuring the view, so she couldn't see anything. She glanced at the bedroom door longingly.

Still the breathing continued.

She held the feather out over the edge of the bed and dropped it. It fluttered to the ground and landed on the rose petals without a sound.

Nothing happened.

_Come on, come on._

And still the breathing continued.

Then she saw it. A hand creeped out. The skin was mottled and grey, dirty and cracked. Black nails on stubby fingers. It grabbed the feather.

Sarah threw her pillow at the floor and jumped off the bed. The breathing was louder, the rotting smell was stronger. She bolted through the open door and slammed it shut behind her.

“That's IT,” she said. “I'm going to get that book, and I'm going to figure out how to get rid of you once and for all!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:
> 
> Whew! We're through the dreamscape. Finally.
> 
> Regarding the change in tense for describing her dreams, the pirate dream worked best in the past tense. 
> 
> Sarah's dreams are inspired by my thoughts on rape culture and victim blaming. There is a lot of self-blame going on there. Our poor goblin king sought to craft those dreams to perfection but it didn't work out quite as he had hoped, did it?
> 
> I always thought having diamonds and roses fall from your lips would be absolutely horrible.


End file.
